Truth Behind the Fantasy of Porn

by Shelley Lubben

  The cop just stood there with his jaw dropped. Then he smiled and offered to take me out for a drink. It was just another day in the sex biz for me.

  Was I always this bad, you ask? Of course I wasn’t. Okay, okay, I admit I was pretty bad but I didn’t start off like that. I was a fairly decent kid until I was about 14 years old and then I discovered boys. I discovered that if I let a boy feel my boobies he would tell me, “I love you.” Oh how I longed to hear those words from my father.

  My mom on the other hand loved to communicate and call me names like, “lazy”, “forgetful”, “hyper” and “weird”. She also used to nag and belittle me to death. If there’s anything I remember about being a teenager it was the daily constant fighting between her and me. My mother verbally and emotionally bulldozed me much of my junior high and high school years.

  I think the hate affair between my mother and I began when I was five years old and my brother was about to be born. I was a jealous little girl who desperately craved attention because I wasn’t getting enough of it. In a last bid attempt to make my parents notice me before my brother arrived, I began making up wild stories about men who tried to kidnap me. When my parents became upset and showed signs of concern for me, I felt like someone had given me a breath of fresh air. But eventually I caved in and told them the truth. I wasn’t an experienced practiced liar yet.

  My sister in stark contrast was a perfect angel. Two years younger than me with the disposition and coloring of a golden cocker spaniel, my mother loved her. Of course, she loved her. She was the easy kid.

  However, I was the mad scientist in the family. Gifted with ESP, extra special personality, I had that little thing called “it.” “It” was something that everybody else didn’t have that I did have. As my mother liked to label it, I was peculiar.

  Born into this world with boundless amounts of energy, I was a talking, walking, dancing, writing, acting and shocking machine. A rising star with humble beginnings in my backyard, I wrote, directed and starred in my first play at six years old. When my first grade teacher told my mother that I amazed her, I was emotionally swept off of my feet. To my mother I was a peculiar pain in the ass but to my affectionate teacher, I was William Shakespeare.

  The first time I ever performed on a real stage I was eight years old. After a successful audition where I huffed and I puffed and blew my teacher’s notes down, I was given the lead part as the Big Bad Wolf in a school play. The other kids just stood there with their mouths dropped. While they clumsily read lines off of their papers, mine were memorized. I marched on that stage and puffed out my words with such a ferocious growl that I almost blew the roof off the cafeteria. Hands down, I got the part.

  It was obvious I was made for the stage, but the gift in me was never developed as it should have been. My young mother was embarrassed by her eccentric daughter and didn’t know what to do with me. My father, who labeled himself as “the mechanical man”, was too busy living his machine-like life to pay much attention to his creative daughter. A man with a genius IQ and an electrical wizard, my father was himself a creative mad scientist. Whenever I wanted to talk with him during the day, all I had to do was go out to the garage or look under the car to find him. If I wanted to talk to him at night, I could find him reclining in his favorite chair in front of the TV. It was TV, the garage or the hardware store. I loved when my Dad spent time with me and took me to the hardware store. I can still smell the colorful wires hanging from the wall.

  My mother was my father’s complete opposite. She really confused me. Born into the family of a fiery Preacher, my mother was the last of five children. She was the “accident” child. Raised in a strict religious home, the worst thing she ever did was sneak a listen to an Elvis song. How my father, the Catholic-raised mechanical wizard and electric guitar player, ever connected with my mother, Your Holiness, remains a mystery to me. But they were very much in love and in fact my mother used to tell me, “Your father I can’t replace. But you we can make more of.” She was a talkative woman whose cold words were like knives thrust into my heart.

  While my mother venomously preached religion to me, she rarely demonstrated the love and truth of Jesus Christ to me. I or someone else was always going to hell for something. My mother was the ultimate judge of humanity and prejudiced against people of other ethnic backgrounds or status. I never understood her actions because my grandfather, her father, was such a sensitive and loving man. When we did go on a rare visit to my grandparents, I could always count on my grandfather to take me on long walks on the beach where he described to me in tears the awesome love of Christ. In his later years, when I asked him to give me his very best piece of advice, he whispered, “Shelley, you must practice the Presence of God.” A few months later he died at ninety-eight years old.

  Confused by Christianity and glued to the TV, I became a daydreamer and imagined what it would be like to be famous. More than anything I wanted to be like the actors I saw on TV who were adored and cherished by millions of people. I wanted to be adored and loved by millions of people. I wanted to receive the long applauses and standing ovations. When I finally unglued myself from hours of television and daydreaming, I expressed myself through poetry or short stories and plays. I wrote my first poem called, “Nature” when I was eight years old. I wrote my first book at nine years old and even designed the book cover. It was the only book written by a child accepted into the school library. I also learned how to play guitar and even tried the violin for a while but with little encouragement, I never developed my musical gifting.

  I was the world’s greatest starter and worst finisher. With no one to regularly encourage me and teach me discipline, I was left to myself where I devised mischievous ways to express my creativity and gain what I desired most: attention.

  When I was about nine years old I began acting out and gave myself the nickname “Shellshock”. Living up to my name and out of pure boredom, I created a list of shocking things to do and convinced some of my friends to join me. One day we were going down the list and it read, “Pretend to be dead.” We nodded. I immediately ran inside the house and got a bottle of ketchup and squirted it all over my arms and face. I handed the ketchup to my friend Stella who kept an eye out behind the bush while I lay down in the street hanging off the curb with my glasses falling out of my hand. It was pure genius. Moving cars came to a halted screech and concerned mothers ran over to see why a bleeding girl was lying in the street. When they bent down to see if I was breathing, I popped up and said, “Just kidding!” and took off running.

  Another time when I was bored and wanted attention, I found a small piece of black cloth that looked like a spider. I knew my mother was fiercely afraid of spiders, especially Black Widows, so I wanted to scare her to death. I took my tiny spider looking cloth and threw it at my mother and screamed, “Spider!” I never saw my mother jump so high in my life. She was so mad with me. Of course, I ran.

  My favorite place to run to was the little Baptist Church on the corner. They knew I was a little villainess and they loved me anyway. The one person who especially loved me was Mrs. Mumby. She was the little gray haired teacher who put up with me every summer in Vacation Bible School. One day while Mrs. Mumby was getting something out of the supply closet, I shoved her in and locked it. As I was laughing hysterically while pointing at the closet, she pounded and screamed, “Let me out, Shelley! Let me out!” I laughed even harder. The other kids looked at me like I was Satan. When nobody had the key to open the closet and the Fire Department came to rescue her, it wasn’t so funny anymore. Mrs. Mumby stepped out ready to faint from heat exhaustion. I felt really bad about that one.

  But then again I felt bad about everything happening in my life. I was a dirty, lonely, shocking little girl on a desperate hunt for love and attention. The only person who truly understood me was my Italian grandmother, Nonnie. Now she was magical.

  “Cigarette me, baby, and light me up,” she’d say in a sexy voice as she tilted her head
back and pretended to dangle her long cigarette holder. My Nonnie loved to impersonate Mae West, Hollywood’s first superstar sex symbol and original blonde bombshell who was arrested in 1918 for “corrupting morals of youth.”

  Well, maybe my Nonnie corrupted me a little.

  She was a captivating woman and eloquent speaker who had the powerful ability to influence anyone in her presence. A petite olive-skinned woman with beautiful jet black hair pinned up, she was the most glamorous woman I had ever seen.

  Every December my glamorous grandmother would visit us for the holidays and stay with our family through mid January. It was the best six weeks out of my unfulfilled life. For six weeks I had someone in my life who consistently told me, “I love you”. For six weeks there was someone who cared enough to take the time to teach me things like the importance of washing my hands before a meal. For six weeks I learned how to fold fancy napkins, set a proper dinner table and how to make Veal Scaloppini. For six weeks I received the love, gentle instruction and encouragement I needed to be successful in life. And for six whole weeks I actually felt good about myself because of the sense of accomplishment I had gained. And then Nonnie would leave and I would fall back into my lazy and rebellious ways until she came back the following year.

  Unfortunately, by the time I was a teenager I was too full of anger and frustration to try and be an angel every Christmas. Quite the opposite, I had become the teenager from hell. With role models like Madonna to encourage me and parents who hid their heads in the sand, I was allowed to do whatever I wanted. I was allowed to go to a senior prom in a limousine with an older non-Christian boy where I got drunk for the first time. My Dad had to drive all the way to Los Angeles to pick me up in a prom dress with holes all over it. Apparently I was so drunk I burned holes through my dress with a clove cigarette. It was the polk-a-dotted purple prom dress from hell.

  At 14 years old, I was allowed to wear a Playboy bunny costume for Halloween with bunny ears, garter belt, fluffy tail and all. My mother took the picture. I was also given permission to drive my mother’s Thunderbird to nightclubs at age 16 and then I was allowed to drive around my 15 year old boyfriend with whom I was having sex. Yes, we had sex in my mother’s car. When she asked me the next day what the spot on her seat was I coolly replied, “Vanilla shake.”

  I was also allowed to have a birthday party in my house where we drank alcohol while my parents watched television in their bedroom. Okay, so they didn’t know we brought in alcohol but what parents allow their rebellious sixteen year old daughter to have a party without parental supervision? I even got my 13 year old sister to drink.

  For most of my teenage life I was pretty much allowed to do whatever I wanted because nobody cared.

  Nobody cared if I had a drinking problem at age 16. Nobody cared if I was flunking classes or receiving bad grades. Nobody cared if I wore fishnet stockings to school. Nobody cared if I was having underage sex. Nobody cared if I was a reckless driver and got my driver’s license suspended. Nobody cared if I went to jail for stealing from Target. Nobody cared about anything I did.

  When my father decided to care about his family and put his foot down and take a firm stand, he threw open the front door and told me to “Get out!” followed by four heartless words that I have never forgotten.

  “You’re dead to me.”

  In shock, I furiously walked out the door with a bag of clothes and a Bible swearing to God I would never talk to my father or mother again for as long as I lived. Over again those words repeated in my head, “You’re dead to me.”

  “You’re dead to me.” Rejection entered in.

  “You’re dead to me.” Hate entered in.

  “You’re dead to me.” Rage entered in.

  And Satan entered into my heart and then all hell broke loose on the next eight years of my life.

  V

  Admit One

  Hell of a Hooker

  Chapter Five

  A brazen blonde bomb-shell with stage names like “Marilyn” and “Blondie”, I hustled myself through eight years of stripping, prostitution and plenty of porn. I started my career at a strip club called “The Top Hat” at seventeen years old when I still lived at home in Glendora, California. It wasn’t hard to steal an older girl’s I.D. and dupe the owner into it and besides I could dance. I could dance so well that even Michael Jackson would have been proud. In fact, my first audition, I did the moonwalk topless to “Billie Jean” while men in plaid shirts whistled and threw crumpled dollar bills at me. When I flipped my head around and saw those truckers slide off their stools to come and get a closer look at me, I jumped off the stage and ran straight for the front doors swearing to God I would never strip again.

  Never say never.

  I ended up a year later on a grimy curb in the San Fernando Valley, the porn capital of the world, where I sat on the edge of a busy street crying my eyes out with sobs flying out of my throat. I hadn’t eaten for two days and I was starving. I thought about getting a job but I didn’t have a driver’s license. I tried begging for money but nobody wanted to help. My situation seemed hopeless. I looked over at the black Bible I brought with me and cried out to Jesus for answers.

  “Jesus, where are you!? How could you let this happen to me? You told me when I was a little girl that I would preach the Gospel to thousands of people. Now I’m sitting here homeless with nothing to eat or drink. I need you to do a miracle right now!”

  I sat there under the hot sun and sobbed for hours on that faded and cracked curb on Sherman Way. Desperate and dehydrated, I didn’t care if I died.

  To my surprise I heard a man’s voice and I looked up and saw a handsome well-built black man staring down at me. He looked like an angel.

  “What’s wrong, honey? Why are you crying?” he asked as he sat down next to me on the curb.

  With swollen eyes and spit hanging out of my mouth I spluttered, “I’m homeless and I don’t have uh any…,” sniff sniff, “food or money. My dad kicked me out of the house and I don’t know what to do.”

  I sobbed even harder and lowered my head into my sticky hands to hide my tears. I was so ashamed and humiliated. The nice man put his arms around me and gently pulled me towards him. When my head landed on his chest I felt an inexplicable relief. It was the first time in my life that an older man had held me so tenderly. It felt so good. I never wanted to leave that feeling. I just wanted to stay wrapped in his arms and rest my head on his big warm chest.

  After he held me for a few minutes he gently turned my chin towards him and said to me, “I can help you, honey. I can get you some money and some food.”

  Immediately I thought Jesus had come to rescue me. I sat up excitedly to listen closely to the handsome man as he continued. “There’s a man in the apartment complex across the street who thinks you’re real pretty and would like to make love to you for $35.”

  “What???” My mouth dropped open. Was this man asking me to be a prostitute? I was a lot of things but I definitely wasn’t a prostitute.

  “No way!” I said as I sat back in disgust.

  But he assured me in a soft-spoken voice that the man who wanted to have sex with me was very nice and would be gentle with me. He told me he could get me a lot of money and that I could get my own apartment and I wouldn’t have to live on the street anymore. I began to think about my parents and what they did to me. I thought about how they were sleeping soundly in their comfortable beds while I sat here on the curb all day and night with no money or food. I thought about the last coldhearted words my father said to me, “You’re dead to me”.

  That’s when I heard a low voice whisper into my head, “God doesn’t care. Your parents don’t care…” and full of hatred I thought to myself, yeah, why should I care? And I agreed to sell myself for $35.

  I was so nervous when he opened the door. The room was dark and I could barely see what the man looked like.

  “Hello,” an older voice called out as I shut the door behind me.

 
; I didn’t answer or make a sound. We were just two complete strangers standing in the dark together. He moved closer to me and pulled my head towards his face. I tried to turn away but he held my head tightly and kissed me. After a couple of minutes I began to feel comfortable because the man was very gentle. In fact, I remember thinking he kissed much better than the high school boys I had dated.

  This isn’t so bad after all, I thought to myself.

  And I walked away with thirty-five big ones. After the pimp lured me in with a nice first trick, he started to set me up with perverse men who demanded bizarre sex. When I refused to do certain sex acts, the pimp threatened me with physical abuse and tried to lock me in his apartment. But I was so full of rage that I busted out of his big black arms and ended up on another curb on Ventura Boulevard.

  By then I was in full survival mode. I started walking the streets boldly asking men if they wanted to have sex for money. One time I approached a mechanic shop and the manager took me into the restroom where he ejaculated and bled all over my face. The blood scared me so badly that I knew I had to get off the streets. I wasn’t sure if he had some type of disease so I ran out of the mechanic shop in tears crying out to God for help. But there was no answer.

  I soon met a girl named Beth who warned me that I was going to get killed if I kept walking the streets. She introduced me to Vanessa, a madam who ran a prostitution house. I really didn’t want to do prostitution anymore in any form so I begged Vanessa to let me weed her lawn in exchange for letting me stay a couple of months. She tried to talk me into turning tricks but I was too traumatized after the pimp and the blood so I adamantly said no. She knew what she was doing though. Every morning she gave me a shovel and a trash can and made me work eight hours a day under the hot California sun. While I was dying in the heat and wiping the sweat off of my muddy brow, the other girls were sitting comfortably inside an air-conditioned house wearing lingerie and drinking iced teas. I would watch the men come through the gate one by one and exactly one hour later I watched them walk back out with a huge smile. The girls looked really happy too. They were counting their money while I was shoveling dirt. And that same low voice came to me again and said, “God doesn’t care. Your parents don’t care…”